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While we walk out of the front door and lock up, I ask him which studies he’s carting around. When he hears my genuine curiosity, his brows lift.
“Pack dynamics. Omega hormones and nutrition. Alpha para-sympathetic pheromone responses. Bonding benefits.” He lists the incredibly personal—and, honestly, heart-flutteringly sweet—topics with a distracted air, and then pauses, as if he’s afraid to ask, “You… like research?”
I nod so hard, my sunglasses almost slide down. “How can you not?” I retort, frowning at the thought of someone not being interested in learning the secrets of the universe. “I did a lot of statistical data analysis for my Master’s. Are your studies peer reviewed? What sorts of sample sizes did they work with?”
Archer’s mouth drops half-open. It’s the second time this morning one of these alphas has looked at me like that. Before I can get too self-conscious, a glossy black Rolls Royce pulls around my tiny car, stopping right in the center of the circular drive.
Ronan—looking effortlessly cool in his all-black suit, slides out of the driver’s seat and comes around. It takes me a moment to realize he’s only gotten out so he can grab me by the hips and lay a scorching kiss on me.
When he pulls back, his quicksilver eyes swirl. “That outfit is fucking perfect, baby girl. Ready to come to work with Daddy?”
I smile, nodding over at Archer. “You might need to do CPR first. I think I broke him.”
Ronan raises a thick winged brow, the expression as cooly gorgeous as the rest of him. And his car.
“Twice in twenty-four hours? A record, little one.” He claps Archer’s shoulder, shaking his packmate. “Breathe, Arch.”
With a sharp swat to my behind, Ronan opens the back door of the car—which, of course, swings to the left instead of the right, because… why wouldn’t it?
I marvel as I climb inside—midnight leather and plush onyx carpeting fill the spacious interior. The stitching is thick, metallic silver. Like his eyes.
Behind me, I barely hear Archer’s shell-shocked whisper. “Ronan—she likes research.”
And for the first time since we met, our alpha laughs.
chapter
thirty-eight
Cringing, I listen as Coach hands Declan his own balls.
Fuck. I know Dec isn’t up his usual standards, but he’s still, you know, the best fucking quarterback in the League.
And, really, the issue on that last play was more the offensive line’s fault. They know his shoulder gets tweaked. They should be protecting his right…
On the sidelines, Dec has his hands on his hips and his head bowed, nodding while Coach yells. My shoulder pads thump against my body as I jog over.
Fuck, it’s hot. September in Florida is already miserable—but in full gear, running around, not to mention I weigh more than any other guy here.
The second I hit the sideline, an assistant hands me a water bottle. I toss him my helmet like I would toss a valet my keys. “Keep her running for me, kid.”
Coach turns, his bald head already bright red from the sun beating down; or maybe the way he was just beating down Dec. I really can’t tell. Either way, his mouth opens wide to shout some more?—
But a beautiful burst of peachy perfume winds its way over the humid air.
Declan moves first, his head snapping up, body turning at the same second. He’s already moving, ignoring the way Coach yells his last name. I pat our boss’s shoulder and follow my packmate. “Sorry, Coach!”
She’s at the far corner of the stadium, where the locker room tunnels empty onto the turf. I spot her standing between Archer and Ronan, both of their bodies angled protectively. I realize why when I feel the utter stillness on the field behind me. Sixty-something alphas all frozen dead in place.
Because they can smell her, too.
Was I tired before?
Not anymore.
I sprint my ass over to her as quickly as I can, smiling at her shriek when I rush her right off her feet. I spin us around while I kiss her, rumbling my appreciation for her taste against full, glossy lips.
Part of me hopes she leaves her lipstick all over my face. That’s better than war paint, in my opinion.
